


Break My Arms Around My Love

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forever's one of those things Tommy's never really thought about before. One of those things you just say. It really only means fifty years or so, maybe seventy if you're lucky. It's not that long at all.</p><p>And Tommy's already wasted two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break My Arms Around My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellowseas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yellowseas).



How can anybody know  
How they got to be this way  
You must have known I'd do this someday  
-The National

Quarter to nine on a Thursday morning, Tommy waits, leaning against a rented Jeep and hiding from the bright July sunshine behind a pair of dark glasses, for Adam to finish locking up the house. There are three bags in the back--one his, two Adam's. For Adam, that's packing light. It's still too much for a road trip to nowhere.

"C'mon, rock star," Tommy says, sliding into the driver's seat. "You're burning daylight."

"Oh my god, don't even," Adam laughs. He gives the handle on the front door one last jiggle before picking up the small knapsack at his feet and rounding the Jeep to the passenger's side. Grabbing one of the bare stabilizer bars, he hops up. "You're not actually John Wayne."

Cranking the engine, Tommy silently points to the trashy cowboy hat perched on his head.

"Which reminds me," Adam says, "where the hell is _my_ hat? I'm gonna freckle."

Tommy shrugs. "I like you with freckles."

"Can we put the top up? I don't want to burn. Where's the sunscreen?"

Halfway down the driveway, Tommy hits the brakes. He levels a glare over his sunglasses at Adam, unable to keep an answering grin from breaking out at the size of the one stretching Adam's mouth wide. "It's awesome how happy you are right now," isn't what Tommy meant to say, but it's true.

"I know." Adam wiggles deeper into the seat, a long, leggy sprawl. "Me and you never hang out anymore. This is a great idea."

A tiny sliver of Tommy wants to point out he's not the one always too busy to make time. It isn't the days Adam spent in the studio, or the promo runs, or all the social networking events that Tommy resents. Tommy didn't even realise he actually resented anything until last week when Adam called him up, alone and lonely for the first time in ages, and Tommy's first bitter thought had been, _Yeah? Not so fucking awesome, is it?_

Instead of bitching, Tommy listened quietly to Adam's rambling, and thought, and planned, and now they're here, alone together, and Tommy's wondering if this is really as great an idea as it sounded two-thirds of the way through a flask of Jack.

"Baby?" Adam prompts, looking at the gate sitting open at the end of the driveway.

"You're not driving," Tommy says, a lame cover-up as he twists around to back out into the street. "This is my show."

An arm slung over the side of the Jeep, smiling face tipped to the sky, Adam's gorgeous. The kind of beautiful Tommy never thought he'd want the way he does. "Anything you say."

"S'right," Tommy says, dragging his eyes back to the road. "You hang on and enjoy the ride."

Adam laughs, bright and clear, and as the Jeep picks up speed, so does Tommy's heartbeat.

*

All the way through the city to the highway, they talk like they used to, about everything and nothing at all. Like the wind's blowing the tension right out of him, leaving it in a cloud of dust in their wake, Adam relaxes bit by bit until he's dozing lightly as they wind their way up the coast, water bottle caught loosely in one hand. The silence is comfortable, and comforting, to Tommy. It reminds him of last summer, when so much of the life he'd tumbled into with Adam was startling and new and exciting. He'd shared Adam with a busload of people, an entire country of them, but had a piece of Adam all his own to claim.

He still does, really. There's always going to be a Tommy-shaped space in Adam's life. If it feels smaller than it used to be, if it doesn't fit just right anymore, that's Tommy's problem.

Feeling the weight of Adam's gaze, Tommy crooks a smile. "Back with me, Sleeping Beauty?"

There's a second's pause, long enough to clue Tommy in that he's caught, didn't hide whatever was showing on his face fast enough. "I really needed this," is all Adam says, though, soft and genuine over the world rushing by. "I miss being on the road."

"Gonna be back at it pretty soon now, babyboy," Tommy says, more like a promise than the fact it is. The album's done. Tour plans are in motion. In another few months, they'll all be crammed into the buses again, living out of suitcases and in one another's pockets. Tommy's craving it like a dying man craves one last sweet scrap of breath.

Looking out over the miles ahead, Adam says, "Tell me you brought food. I forgot to eat breakfast."

Reaching across Adam, Tommy opens the glovebox and fishes out an energy bar. He tosses it into Adam's lap with a smug smile.

"Peanut butter!" Adam exclaims, tearing into the shiny wrapper.

Tommy sticks out a hand. "Gimme half."

Clutching the bar protectively, Adam slinks back against the door. "No way. Get your own."

"That thing is like five-hundred calories."

Adam's face falls. "Fucking peanut butter," he grumbles, and grudgingly breaks the bar in two.

"You love it," Tommy says around a big bite.

"I do," Adam moans. He takes a tiny, tiny nibble. "I wish it loved me."

"It does. That's why it sticks around." Not that Tommy wants to be the kind of guy that assigns emotions to inanimate objects, but if he were peanut butter, he'd want to stick around Adam too. He doesn't actually ever notice the pounds Adam gains or loses until Adam points them out, and even then, he doesn't care beyond how Adam feels about it. It's not that he's blind to the way Adam looks on any given day. But when he thinks Adam's getup is ridiculous, or Adam's hair is pushing the boundaries of believable, it doesn't make a difference. Adam is Adam. He honestly, flat-out, does not give a shit beyond that. Maybe that's why it took him so long to see what was right in front of his stupid face.

"Then I wish it hated my stinking guts," Adam declares, chewing vengefully.

Tommy doesn't utter a single word. The dorky smile on his face says everything anyway.

*

When _Fever_ comes up on Tommy's playlist, Adam cranks the volume. "I love it when I'm on the radio."

Tommy thinks about letting that one slide. This whole thing they're doing right now is about something he's got to prove, though, so he says, "Not the radio, man. Sorry."

Blinking down at the iPod jack like it appeared out of nowhere, Adam goes from sun-kissed beautiful to adorably pleased in five seconds flat. Tommy's life would be easier if he weren't such a sucker for Adam's face. It sure as hell isn't cock he's thinking about when he rubs one off over Adam.

"Tommy Joe," Adam purrs delightedly, dialling the music up to ear-splitting levels, the rhythm swallowed by the wind.

Tommy shouts, "C'mon, Lambert," over the noise, leaning back in the seat to watch Adam out of the corner of his eye, "sing it!"

"Only if you do too!" Adam shouts back, blindingly happy, teeth flashing white in the sunlight.

And Tommy does. Not even waiting a beat, he starts belting out lyrics, sometimes off key, sometimes on, but it doesn't matter when the music's this loud and the wind's stealing their voices, sound whipping behind them, streaming down the highway. Somehow, Adam's voice rises above it all, pure and bell-clear. Like so many times on stage, Tommy's chest squeezes tight. Whatever else Adam may be, he's a singer first, and music has always been the one thing able to reach Tommy at his core.

The song ends too soon. Tommy wants to hit repeat over and over again until Adam's hoarse. He settles for lowering the volume as his playlist flips over to something mellow. Into the sudden relative quiet, he says, "I could fucking listen to you forever."

"Watch it," Adam warns, still smiling, "or I'll put that in your next contract, and then you'll be stuck listening to me bitch about acoustics until you keel over."

"Or my hearing goes."

"Nope, not even then." Adam gives Tommy's hand on the gearshift a comforting pat. His nails are black and perfect next to Tommy's chipped, faded polish. "I'll learn sign language for you, so you won't lose your job."

"Wow," Tommy says slowly, "thanks."

One more pat and Adam's hand slides away. "Anything for you."

Forever's one of those things Tommy's never really thought about before. One of those things you just say. It really only means fifty years or so, maybe seventy if you're lucky. It's not that long at all.

And Tommy's already wasted two.

Fifteen minutes later, when Adam goes to crank the volume again, Tommy grabs onto his hand and holds on. Adam looks startled for a moment, suddenly not sure what to make of their fingers laced together when they've held hands a hundred thousand times before. But he settles back, says, "Okay, Mr. Territorial. I won't touch your radio."

"Damn straight," Tommy says, and doesn't let go.

*

About an hour outside Watsonville, Tommy's planned destination for the night--he wants to blast straight through San Francisco--Adam asks, "Are you planning on letting me pee anytime soon?"

"Dude, all you had to do was say." Keeping an eye out for a likely spot, Tommy pulls over about thirty seconds later, killing the engine. "There ya go."

Adam looks doubtfully out at the scrub brush lining the side of the road. "So like, I know nobody really takes this route, but I'm kinda famous now, and you want me to piss on the side of the road?"

Tommy shrugs. "You could hold it."

"I've _been_ holding it," Adam says, still staring at the dusty shoulder like he's afraid it'll bite.

"This is actually my really complex and devious plan to see your junk," Tommy says.

Adam drawls, "Well, gee, Tommy, all you had to do was ask," with a sideways slant to his mouth and mischief in his eyes.

Tommy winks. "Lemme see your junk, baby." He's not really joking at all.

Adam's laugh is three seconds delayed. He pops open the door and slides out with a cautious glance to the highway. "You're gonna protect my honour here, right?"

"Absolutely," Tommy says.

Plastering on another one of dubious looks, Adam turns away, then back. "It's playing right into your plan if I do it right here, isn't it."

Making a show of looking around the deserted highway, Tommy says, "Jeep's good cover."

"God," Adam huffs, half a laugh, and then he's turning away again. The sound of him unzipping is really, really loud. It's weird. He's taken a leak around Tommy before. Batting for the other team or not, Adam's not shy and neither is Tommy, but now he's wondering if he's the one making this into a big deal when it isn't.

Listening to Adam piss on the side of the road shouldn't give Tommy goosebumps. It's not even one of those things that presses his buttons or whatever. But it's intimate. Way more than the intimate friends label they've got going on.

He's been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be intimate with Adam.

"No helicopters yet," Tommy says, fiddling with the generic fob dangling from the keys.

Adam's head jerks up. "Shit, I didn't even think about that."

Tommy cracks up. "Dude," he says once he's got the breath, and by then Adam's shaken off and zipped up, climbed back in, "it's not fucking LA. Nobody's gonna buzz you."

"Thank fuck." Twisting around, Adam grabs one of the lukewarm Aquafinas from the back.

Tommy says, "Hey."

"Last one." Cracking open the top, Adam takes a huge, long mouthful. Tommy stares at his throat the whole time, wondering when he turned into this total Adam-voyeur. Seriously. He's slept in the same bed as the guy before. He knows exactly what Adam's morning wood feels like. The shallow bob of his adam's apple isn't anything Tommy should be fixating on.

It takes Tommy a second to click in that Adam's holding out the bottle expectantly, eyebrow cocked.

"I dunno if I wanna drink your backwash," Tommy says, like they're actually thirteen again.

"Another hour out in this heat and you'll be begging to suck it off my tongue."

Any good comeback Tommy had for that one's long gone. Shrugging, Adam goes to cap the bottle. Tommy lunges across the seat, grabbing at it and knocking back whatever's left in one fell swoop. Lukewarm or not, it hits his guts like ice.

Leaning back, Adam slides his shades back down. "Tinkle before we go, honey."

"Fuck you," Tommy says, and gives the bottle a careless toss into the back before he starts up the Jeep again. "I'm not the one with a bladder the size of a walnut."

"So much for my really complex and devious plan to see your junk."

"Aw, baby," Tommy says, forcing the words past the spiny lump caught in his throat, "all you had to do was ask."

*

"Jesus Christ," Tommy says, legging it down the dreary hallway of a Motel 6, "I'm gonna piss myself."

"I told you to water the grass before we left," Adam says, trailing a few feet back, not an ounce of sympathy in his tone.

"Piss on your _bed_ ," Tommy threatens, giving up on rocking from foot to foot as he waits at the door, dropping one of Adam's bags to grab his junk, give it a rough squeeze. "Christ, c'mon, open the door."

Adam stops short with the key a whole mile if it's an inch away from the knob. The fact that this place has actual keys for their rooms is testament to how far away from Adam's usual glitz-glam world they are. "I don't know," he says, blatantly staring, "you grabbing yourself like that is kinda hot."

"I'll give you a whole fifty-cent peep show if you open the goddamn door already," Tommy grits out.

With a flourish, Adam opens the door.

"Thank fuck, thank fuck," Tommy chants, beelining it for the bathroom. He kicks up the seat with a boot while he's hauling his dick out, breathing a massive sigh of relief when he can finally let go.

"Wow, Tommy Joe," Adam says, hefting the bags in from the hallway. "Are you actually taking a leak in there or did you start on the porn already?"

"Blah blah blah," Tommy says, listing forward to brace one hand on the wall behind the toilet. He's not afraid he's going to bust a nut pissing anymore, but he's still going kinda strong. "Wait, is there porn? Dude, seriously, did you nab me a porn menu?"

Over the sound of drawers opening and closing, Adam says, "Motel 6 doesn't have pay per view porn."

Waiting until his bladder decides that yes, it is nicely empty now thanks ever so much for your patience, Tommy tucks his dick away and gives his hands a cursory rinse under the tap. Instead of groping for a towel in the twilight, he pats his hands dry on his jeans as he wanders out into the main room.

Sprawled out on one of the double beds, Adam brandishes the remote. "Only on one condition will I suffer through your obsession with lesbian porn."

Not actually interested in spending the night staring at plastic tits and fake smiles when he's got Adam all to himself, Adam's cell phone securely tucked away in the bottom of Tommy's bag, Tommy figures he's got nothing to lose. And hey, if his life were a porno, this would be where Adam says he can have the remote in exchange for a blowjob, which, okay, wow. That's kinda not where he expected his brain to go. Never even mind the whole thing where his gay best friend is willing to watch titty porn with him.

Fighting the urge to scrub his hands dry all over again, Tommy says, "Gonna tell me or do I have to guess?"

Completely straight-faced, Adam says, "I want a cuddle."

"A cuddle," Tommy repeats slowly.

Beaming, Adam nods.

"Like, while we're watching the porn? Or like before or after or what?" Cuddling with Adam isn't exactly a foreign concept. Adding in the porn's throwing him way the hell off.

Adam's brow crinkles. "I didn't get that far."

Before that digs too deeply into Tommy's brain, he clambers onto the bed, shoving aside the remote to sling an arm and a leg over Adam, tuck his face into the crook of Adam's neck. Adam smells like fresh air, green growing things and that light, tangy heat everybody thinks is cologne but is really all him. Adam's arms settle around Tommy, big hands stroking down his back, and that last little bit of tension Tommy somehow missed seeps from Adam's body as he sinks into it. Trying to remember the last time Adam held him, Tommy tightens his grip.

"Baby," Adam says, muffled in his hair, "thank you, that's so much fucking better."

"Since when did you have to ask for a fucking hug anyway," Tommy mumbles, shuffling closer even though there's no more closer left to get.

With a quiet laugh, fingers sliding up to comb through the hair at Tommy's nape, Adam says, "I don't even know. I've had to be so careful out there these last few months. Like holding his fucking hand would spell the end of the world."

"Yeah, well," Tommy says, jabbing Adam with a knee, "now you're in here with me, and you don't gotta be fucking careful. Wanna order a big greasy pizza and drink booze?"

"God yes," Adam breathes reverently, and Tommy grins, squeezing him a little tighter.

*

Sometime after three in the morning, Tommy's bladder decides it's not done making a total liar out of him yet. He stumbles out of bed, a bit tipsy still, and tries to be as quiet as he can futzing around in the bathroom. After he almost trips on the pile of towels heaped on the floor from the shower Adam took while they were waiting for the pizza to arrive, Adam calls out to ask if he's still alive, and he writes his attempt at stealth off as both nobel and very, very pointless.

"Sorry," Tommy whispers, hand skimming along the foot of Adam's bed as he picks his way carefully past it back to his own. "Go back to sleep."

As Tommy's about to climb into bed, Adam says, "Tommy?" slow and careful, loaded with a question Tommy can't quite hear.

Shivering in the air conditioned cool, Tommy says, "Yeah?"

"How drunk are you right now?"

Letting the blankets drop to keep what's left of the heat from seeping out, Tommy takes a minute to think that one through. "Not very. Why, you got something in mind you need a drunken bandmate to pull off?"

A pause, then, "Does sleeping with me fall into that category?"

Tommy's heart gives one hard kick to his ribs. "Are you gonna put tour teddy into my contract this time around, too?"

Instead of an answer, there's the rustling of cotton, sheets lifted in invitation. Groping across the three feet between their beds, Tommy clumsily slides in, knees and elbows bumping until he figures out Adam's facing him. "Why do I gotta be the little spoon?" Tommy complains, refusing to give Adam his back.

"Because you do," Adam says. "Roll over."

"Fucking totalitarian dictatorship," Tommy mutters, and rolls over.

A welcome flood of heat follows Adam's pressing all along his back, acres and acres of bare skin that sparks a shiver low down in Tommy's belly. He breathes out slowly, trying to ignore it, resolutely not thinking about the softness of Adam's cock nestled against his ass, the unfamiliar prickle of body hair, how fucking big Adam's hand is splayed out over his chest. Between one beat and the next, his heart starts going double-time.

"I hate sleeping alone," Adam says.

Snuggling in closer, Tommy says, "I know, baby. I'm sorry you gotta."

Adam says, "Not tonight, though," already close to sleep.

"Nope." Resting a hand over Adam's, Tommy laces their fingers together. "Not tonight."

Not ever again, if Adam wanted.

*

Tommy wakes pinned to the mattress by Adam's solid weight. It's hot and sticky, he can't really breathe, and there are things poking him in places he isn't exactly sure he wants to be poked. He thinks about what would happen if he went ahead and said it. Blurted _I love you_ , meaning it in a way he hasn't before. Maybe the shock of it would jerk Adam awake. Maybe Adam would snore on, oblivious, drooling on his shoulder.

"Your dick is about to pop my ass cherry," Tommy says instead, loudly.

"It'll only hurt for a second," Adam mumbles, more than half asleep.

Twilight-dim, the room smells like a dorm, pizza and booze and morning breath. Tommy never did the college thing. In retrospect he figures he'd have done the same as Adam, dropping out as soon as he figured out it wasn't the place for him, but maybe if Tommy had tried it, he'd have done the whole experimenting with his sexuality thing. Unlike Adam, though, he'd never wondered.

"I want flowers first," Tommy says, using the pillow to scrub hair out of his face. "And dinner and a movie. And tacos on a nudist beach in Saint-Tropez, and like, put a fucking ring on it."

Sounding only slightly more awake, Adam says, "How about coffee and a stale muffin?"

Tommy's stomach grumbles. "Awesome" He jiggles his hips. "Go fetch."

A hand slaps roughly to Tommy's hip. "Oh my god," Adam groans, "don't do that. I haven't gotten laid in a week."

"Dude, not my problem," Tommy says, and wriggles around some more.

"You are such a shit," Adam says, trying to hold him down one handed. When that's obviously doomed to failure, Adam aims at taking a chunk out of his back, sharp teeth digging in above the wing of his shoulder blade, and Tommy yelps, laughing and squirming around for all he's worth. Heaving up, Adam drops right back down on top of him, crushing him for real this time. "Say you're sorry."

Tommy wheezes pitifully.

Fingers hover threateningly close to Tommy's armpits. "Say you're sorry."

To keep from getting tickled, Tommy would so totally say he's sorry. He'd pledge his fucking soul to Jesus to keep Adam's evil fingers away. But he can't actually breathe. And not in the whole Adam squeezing all the air out of his lungs way, either. Not physically. More like absolutely every inch of Adam is pressed to every inch of him, and his morning wood seems to be pretty interested in where Adam's morning word is headed.

"Employee abuse," Tommy croaks.

"You're not on my payroll again yet." When Adam's fingers dig in, Tommy screeches louder than a five-year-old girl. No matter how hard he tries, he can't keep from flailing around stupidly, kicking and wailing and being a total fucking flake about it. He's pretty sure he almost bashes Adam in the nose with his elbow, which Adam fucking _deserves_ , but Adam somehow manages to duck and dodge and keep tickling until Tommy is crying mercy with tears streaming down his face, weird buzzing sunk so deep into his skin that even when Adam stops, it's still there making him twitch as he waits for his lungs to start working again.

"Coffee and a muffin, coming up," Adam says happily, planting a loud, smacking kiss in the middle of Tommy's bare back.

Still not sure he can speak, Tommy settles for shakily flipping Adam off. The second Adam's out the door, Tommy bolts out of bed, wobbling his way to the bathroom where he hunches over the toilet and whacks one off as fast as he fucking can. He stares at the open bathroom door, thinking maybe he should close it, because knowing Adam he forgot something absolutely essential, like fucking lip gloss, and could barge back in any second, catch Tommy with his shorts down and dick in hand.

Stuck thinking about his dick in Adam's hands, Tommy comes.

*

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Adam asks, squinting doubtfully at the map.

"Seriously," Tommy says, rolling easily through a complicated intersection of side streets, walking paths and bike roads, the kind you only find in small towns where nobody gets around to planing the layout, "trust me. This place has the best shit outside of Mexico."

"Okay," Adam says, oozing doubt, but he folds up the map and sticks it in the footwell.

"You gotta work for it, right?" Tommy says, slowing down as a bunch of kids dart out into the road. They're about two hours outside San Francisco, northbound along the coast, creeping through the kind of town Tommy could be perfectly happy in, playing local gigs between big tours, and would drive Adam batshit in about one week flat. "These like, little life treasures. Gotta hunt 'em down."

"If I'd known we were heading out on a hunting expedition, I would've packed provisions."

"Gonna make lunch taste all the better, you wait and see," Tommy says, tapping out a random beat on the steering wheel as he points the Jeep down a twisting road barely wide enough for a horse cart.

Five minutes later, Tommy triumphantly leads Adam into a cantina plastered with more pictures of the Virgin Mary than the Pope's bedroom. This early in the day, it's pretty empty, a couple of guys playing cards at a table in the corner and another few at the bar. Catching the eye of the man behind the counter, Tommy points at one of the tables furthest from everybody else, grinning when the guy nods and disappears into the back.

"You're gonna fucking love this," Tommy says, hauling out a chair.

Glancing around, Adam's got this look on his face like he wants to bolt. "It's definitely got atmosphere."

"Hey." Instead of reaching across the table for Adam's hand like he wants, Tommy kicks Adam's foot under it, getting him to look back from the four-foot Mary statue at one end of the bar, a dozen rosaries dripping from her clasped hands. "Not that kind of place, okay? It's cool."

Before Adam can speak, the bartender swings by with a basket of tortilla chips, a small clay dish overflowing with salsa fresca, and a short, stained piece of laminated paper listing all the appetisers available. Tommy orders up a couple of Mexican imports to drink, earning a whole slew of points with the guy, and flips the menu around for Adam to browse.

"Don't give me that look," Tommy says. "You'll drink beer and you'll like it."

Dipping a chip into the salsa, Adam says, "You're a pushy date," then, after he's stuffed his mouth full, "oh my god, this is fucking amazing."

"Guy makes it fresh right here," Tommy says, getting in for a taste before Adam forgets himself entirely and scarfs the whole thing. "You just stick with me, Lambert. I'll get you the good stuff."

Adam breaks a couple of chips into smaller pieces, heaping them high with fresh tomato and onion. "How did you even know about this place?"

Grinning impishly, Tommy taps the side of his nose. Adam laughs again--since Tommy picked him up yesterday morning, he's spent his time laughing--and flips the menu back around. "Alright, smartass. I'm in your hands."

Warmth pools in Tommy's gut. Fighting the urge to squirm in his chair, he starts scanning the menu for anything and everything he knows Adam won't be able to resist.

*

Three hours back on the road, Adam's still moaning, "Fuck, you killed me," while rubbing miserably at his belly. His tone doesn't match the smile stuck on his face, though. He shifts in the seat, huffing, fiddling with his seatbelt. "I can't believe you took a doggie bag."

"Are you fucking kidding me? That shit is gold." Tommy's usually hungry again about an hour after he eats, anyway. But the coast road is straight out of a Mazda commercial, and the last thing he wants is to take a header off a cliff because he's busy cramming his mouth full of beef taco. Between their late start and the hours they killed in the cantina, they're not as far north as he'd been hoping. He'd passed straight through Eureka, aiming for the Oregon border, and now, with black clouds bearing down from behind, they're winding their way through shadowy redwoods with only about an hour of daylight left.

Catching Tommy's gaze on the rearview mirror, Adam twists around to look out the back. "Yikes."

"Yeah. Thinking we should find a place to crash soon."

"We're in the middle of a national park. Are there even places to stay here?"

"Totally," Tommy says. He hasn't got a fucking clue. But people go camping and shit, right? There's got to be civilisation around somewhere.

"Uh huh," Adam says.

"Shut up and look for a sign," Tommy says, slowing down to take a curve that does close to a ninety-degree dogleg around a mountainside.

"There's, no, never mind. Population 64." Adam laughs nervously. "Let's not try there."

A few tense minutes later, nothing but trees and rocks all around, Tommy says, "Y'know, if we were gonna be brutally murdered by a raving psychopath, this would totally be the place it'd happen."

Adam gapes soundlessly.

"Just saying."

Staring hard out at the trees, Adam says, "Maybe we should put the top up."

"You want me to _stop_?"

"Good point," Adam says, then clutches at his belly again. "Now I'm actually kind of terrified."

Tommy nods quickly. There's definitely some cool squirming going on with his insides, too. "Fucking awesome, isn't it?"

"We are not going to get murdered in the Redwoods, Tommy Joe," Adam says sternly.

"Totally not," Tommy agrees. "But I'm gonna pick up the pace a little, that good with you?"

"Oh god, yes. Go."

With darkness closing in, Tommy gives it as much gas as he dares, which it still probably a little more than is strictly safe or sane. He's not actually afraid for his life, but it's exciting and thrilling and maybe kinda scary anyway. He wants to hold Adam's hand for absolutely no reason at all.

"There!" Adam shouts, making Tommy jerk in the seat. "Freshwater Lagoon, cabins for rent. Next left."

"The next left's gonna put us _in_ the lagoon." But Tommy slows down, keeping an eye out.

Seven and a half long minutes later, Adam says, "Maybe we missed it?"

"I'm not turning around to find out," Tommy says, mouth set in a grim line. The breeze eking it's way in through the trees from the west smells cold, threatening. If they don't find something soon, they're gonna have to pull over and put up the canvas, or end up soaked to the skin in seconds when those clouds break.

Adam says, "That, up there. See that sign?"

Tommy squints into the dark. "Looks good enough to me," he says, and turns onto the road beside it, lumbering along a pitted dirt lane. It opens to a parking lot, a log-cabin convenience store, closed, on one side, and what looks like an office on the other. Pulling up right in front of the office, Tommy unbuckles his belt and palms the keys. "You're coming with me."

"Like hell I'd be staying here by myself," Adam says, grabbing their bags from the back. He hands one off to Tommy, motioning for him to go first up the stairs to the most uninviting solid steel door Tommy's ever seen.

"Great," Tommy mutters, "thanks."

"You're the one who's playing big strong boyfriend on this trip," Adam says, "which pretty much guarantees I'm the one who's going to end up running through the woods in my underwear, so yeah, you go first."

At the top of the wooden stairs, beside the door to Fort Knox, is a panel with a single button that reads, _PRESS TO TALK_. Tommy stares at it.

"Are you gonna push it?" Adam asks.

Swallowing the giddy fear rising up the back of his throat, hoping like hell some crazy-ass trapdoor doesn't open up beneath their feet, Tommy jams the button. "We'd, uh, like a room?"

Nothing. Adam presses it again, says, "Please?"

There's a low buzz, a click, and the door pops open. "Jesus," Tommy says, staring at it.

"Forty bucks for the night," somebody calls from inside, "and a hundred dollars cash up front deposit."

Cautiously pulling open the door, Tommy's thankfully greeted with the very normal sight of a long counter piled with stacks of brochures, maps, and an ancient cash register. There's a woman beside it, face lined and wrinkled, wearing a sweater with the name _Freshwater Lagoon_ stitched into the front and a baseball cap trying to contain a riot of curls. "Hi," Tommy says with a small wave. "Thanks."

"Cash up front," the woman repeats, levelling a narrow-eyed stare their way, "then say thanks."

Unfazed, Adam starts digging bills out of his wallet. "I'd like a receipt for the deposit, please."

The woman's mouth thins as she digs a booklet out from beneath the counter. "You boys had better not be planning on trashing my cabin."

"No, ma'am," Adam says easily. "We don't want to get stuck in the storm."

Making a low noise in her throat, seriously Marge Simpsonish, she scratches out a receipt and hands it over. "Fair enough. Number 5. Straight down the left there for a minute, then 'round the big stump."

A key jangles onto the counter. Tommy snatches it up before she can change her mind and hightails it out the door with another hasty, "Thanks!" thrown over his shoulder.

"Honestly," Adam says, following, "the cantina with the guy in the eyepatch didn't bother you, but she's scary."

"Anybody who lives behind an electronically locked steel door in the middle of a redwood forest has got to be scary as motherfucking shit," Tommy says, quickly dumping his bag in the back and jamming the key into the ignition. "You see a big stump anywhere?"

"The lady said that way," Adam says, pointing in the vague direction of what Tommy guesses some people might decide is to the left of the office, but honestly looks more like straight ahead to him. "Is that rain?"

"Shit." Tommy jams the Jeep into gear.

A single loud crack sounds overhead. "Here it comes," Adam warns, holding onto the dash, braced for the downpour.

Bumping along the dirt road, Tommy scans through the trees hoping for Number 5 to leap out at them. Icy cold drops of rain start pecking at the back of his neck.

"Big stump," Adam says.

"Holy shit. Giant fucking stump." Cutting around it, the fucking thing bigger than most cars, Tommy spots a vague shadow that could be a cabin. When they get close, a motion light flicks on, bathing the small clearing surrounding it in a warm, inviting glow. "Huh."

"See," Adam says, hopping out of the Jeep the second it slows to a stop. "This is nice. Help me get the top up."

Which turns out to be only slightly easier than Tommy thought it would be, the canvas awkward and ungainly but for the most part clunking smoothly into place. Almost in time, too. With a few locks to go, the sky cracks open.

"Grab the stuff!" Tommy shouts over the crashing downpour. "I'll get this!"

Nodding, Adam hefts all four bags. He stares at the key Tommy's holding out for a blank second, then, nabbing it between his teeth, takes off for the cabin.

"Holy fuck," Tommy mutters, dashing around to the other side to make sure everything's sealed tight. It only takes him about thirty seconds, maybe forty, but by the time he makes it up the stairs and into the cabin, he's soaked straight through.

"Don't!" Adam barks as he slams the door against the storm.

Freezing his fucking balls off, Tommy chatters, "What?"

"I want my hundred bucks back," Adam says, moving from the fireplace near the beds to the bathroom, emerging with a big fluffy towel. "You are not dripping all over that lady's rugs." Draping the towel over Tommy's head, Adam starts scrubbing his hair dry, and Tommy stands there like a total tool thinking about yachts in Cabo and hotels in Paris and underground clubs in Amsterdam, and how he really is the most selfish guy in the whole fucking world for what he's about to do.

When Tommy kisses him, Adam doesn't bother to pretend he's surprised. There isn't even a hitch as he goes from holding the towel to cupping Tommy's face, taking over to slide his tongue into Tommy's mouth sweet and slow and devastating. It isn't for the show, or some drunken urge, or anything else except Adam's mouth on his taking him apart. He clutches at the front of Adam's shirt, thinking maybe he should start giving as good as he's getting here, but all he's really got is finally, _fucking finally_.

Instead of going deeper, kissing harder, when Tommy tilts his head to better meet Adam, Adam slips away. "You're like ice. Go warm up in the shower, okay?"

"What?" Tommy asks again, dazed, still caught in the phantom touch of Adam's hands.

"Warm up," Adam repeats, and kisses him again, a chaste touch to the corner of his mouth. "I'll get the fire going."

Catching the towel before it hits the muddy mat, Tommy tries to get his brain back online so he can figure out what the hell just happened there. "Can you, like, pretty sure burning down the cabin is worse than dripping on the rugs."

"Shower," Adam commands, pointing sternly at the bathroom.

"Alright, Jesus, okay." Wrestling off his boots, laces tight from the rain, Tommy leaves them in a heap by the door. Inside the bathroom, he fiddles with the shower taps, grabs a clean towel off the rack, and ten minutes later, doesn't really have a fucking clue how the hell he ended up in the middle of washing his hair. When he rinses off and climbs out, he finds a pair of his sweats, a well-worn Loudermilk tee, and one of Adam's big hoodies on the lid of the toilet, along with some socks and shorts. In a weird kind of fog, Tommy dries off and gets dressed, trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to find when heads back out to the main room.

Turns out, nothing more than Adam bundled up in bed under a big down comforter, a small crackling fire, and the thundering rain.

"Hey," Adam says, glancing up from the book in his lap. "Check this out."

Trying to buy some time, Tommy slings his wet clothes over a couple of the chairs at the dining table, dragging them closer to the fire. The cabin's not all that big, the front door opening into the kitchenette, the bathroom right off of it, and two beds off to the side in the main area. Adam gives the empty space beside him an encouraging pat.

Figuring what the fuck, Tommy climbs in under the comforter, settling beneath Adam's arm. "What is it?"

"Stories. This guy was on a cross-country tour, just him and his pedal bike. There's another one," pausing, Adam flips back a couple of pages, "yeah, a businesswoman arrived late for a conference, and the hotel lost her reservation. She said the hell will it and spent the weekend here reading trashy romances and eating junk food."

"That's kinda cool." Peering down at the pages, Tommy picks up bits and pieces of her tale, her handwriting big and sprawling, happy-looking.

"I love stuff like this," Adam says. "People's stories living on here long after they've gone back to wherever they came from. Like little time capsules."

Flipping to the front of the book to see if it's dated, Tommy asks, "How far does it go back?"

"This one's pretty new. There are more on the shelf." Flicking forward through the book again, Adam lands on a blank page. He runs his thumb down the spine, flattening it, then smooths his hand over the page. The pen's still tucked in a little loop attached to the inside cover.

When he doesn't move to pick the pen up, Tommy elbows him gently. "What're you gonna write?"

"I don't know," Adam says, not looking at the page anymore. "What's our story, Tommy Joe?"

For a second, barely the span of a heartbeat, Tommy thinks about what will happen if he lets that slide on by. This is the whole reason they're out here, though. This is why Tommy had to get Adam away from LA, away from friends and boyfriends and family, stripped of everything Tommy's been hiding behind for months.

"I like him," Adam says, his grip on Tommy's shoulder tightening like he thinks Tommy's going to pull away. "I think I could be with him."

And there it is. Every time before, it hasn't been real. Adam's dated, and fucked, only a handful of guys in the time Tommy's known him, but it's never been something. Tommy's seen more than the pictures, though, heard more than the speculations, the media buzz. He's seen them together, the possibilities in their eyes when they look at one another. He's heard respect, love, in the way they talk to one another.

"I know you could," Tommy says, "and I know my timing is total shit, but I didn't--" Dragging in a shuddering breath, he forces his gaze up from the blank page to meet Adam's. "We're good together, too."

"Not good enough, Tommy," Adam says softly, and Tommy's heart clenches, sure he's been shot down entirely with three little words. But Adam's hold doesn't loosen, and his gaze doesn't waver. "This is gonna be a weird life imitating art moment, but you have to tell me what you want from me."

 _Everything_ , Tommy thinks, but that isn't any kind of answer Adam'll take. He pulls in another breath, then another, as if the more air he has in his lungs, the easier it will be to get the words out. "I want a chance. A real chance. You could be with him. But you could be with me, too. I'm at least worth finding out for sure. I fucking know I'm worth that."

"You're worth more than just a chance," Adam says. "But baby, I'm still me. I get it if you're jealous, or scared, but you don't have to be. You don't have to do this to keep me in your life."

"I'm _not_ ," Tommy says, pushing away, up onto his knees. "Yeah, okay, I am. But that's not why I'm saying this shit. I really fucking mean it. All of it, I'm in. Paps and fans and Perez fucking Hilton and what the fuck ever, I'm in. Everything you are, and yeah, including your big fucking dick, okay?"

Calm and reasonable, Adam says, "Tommy, you've never even been with a guy."

"I don't wanna be with a fucking _guy_ ," Tommy explodes, "I want to be with you. Jesus Christ, man. I'm in love with you. What the fuck do I care if that means you want to do me up the ass every other night and Sunday mornings too?"

The corners of Adam's mouth go slack, his eyes dark, and Tommy knows he's thinking about it. What it would be like to roll Tommy over, push up into him, hold him close and fuck him. And now Tommy's thinking about it too, this weird, hectic rush inside, jittery and nervous and excited.

"I want that," Tommy says, softly beneath the thrumming of the rain on the roof. "Whatever you're thinking, I want it."

Tommy's not really sure how it happens, but one minute he's on his knees staring Adam down, and the next he's flat on his back with Adam looming over him, one hand pinning his wrist to the bed and the other pressing down hard on his shoulder. He thinks maybe Adam's trying to prove something here, but the frantic, fucking _delighted_ jerk of Tommy's heart probably isn't the reaction he had in mind.

Dragging a knee up to make space for Adam to settle between, Tommy says, "I still want it. I really, really fucking want it."

Adam's fingertips dig into the soft underside of Tommy's wrist. "I gave up waiting on you. I found somebody else."

"Jesus." Closing his eyes briefly, Tommy focuses on keeping all the air in his lungs from squeezing free. "I know. I'm so fucking sorry. I did the stupid cliché thing where I didn't realise what we had until somebody came along to take it away."

The hard edge in Adam's gaze softens along with his voice. "You honestly mean it. You want me."

Tommy quickly wets his lips. "So bad, man. But like, you should really get off me now or I'm gonna do something I totally shouldn't, 'cause I don't wanna start this shit off with making a cheater out of you."

"We're not exclusive," Adam says, a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Me and him."

Tommy's stomach pulls off a triple axel and lands square in his throat. His hand twitches in Adam's grip. "So I can touch your dick?"

"Please," Adam says, sounding eager and desperate and cool and suave all at once.

"Fuck, leggo," Tommy says, yanking his hand free to scrabble at Adam's fly, peel it open and shove his hands in. He hauls the whole works out, cock in one hand and balls in the other, and then he stares for awhile, mouth flooding wet. He's pretty seriously well acquainted with dick--what with the whole fucking having one thing--knows what it feels like filling out in his hand, the shape and texture and give, but holy fuck, when it's somebody else's, it's really fucking different.

Giving Adam a slow tug, squeezing near the head, Tommy flicks a quick glance up. "This is fucking awesome."

"Yeah it is," Adam breathes, busy staring at Tommy's hands. "And now it's not weird if I tell you I've jerked off thinking about your hands before."

Lust hits Tommy in the gut so hard he kinda maybe grunts a little. He splays his fingers out around Adam's cock, tips brushing balls. "Yeah?"

"You've got really nice hands," Adam says, almost like it's an excuse or something.

"You got a nice dick." That's probably Tommy's bias talking there. A dick is a dick is a dick, sorta, but this one is Adam's, and Tommy is generally pretty biased when it comes to things that are Adam's. Music, clothes, and apparently, cock. There's a little slick at the slit, body-warm, that Tommy drags his thumb through, fascinated with the slippery feel of it like he hasn't ever been before. "Holy fuck, I just wanna get all up in you."

Catching him by the jaw, Adam leans down, says, "Okay," as Tommy's mouth opens for the kiss he knows is coming, and then Adam's licking at his lips, playing around with tiny nips and sucks. Which is pretty amazing in a ton of ways, but Tommy's got ideas about what should happen here, really specific ones about parts of Adam being in parts of him, so he fists his hand tight around Adam's cock, starts jacking it very seriously. He is so fucking serious about this shit.

And then Adam goes and makes this really awesome noise, not as deep or smooth as when he does it deliberately on stage, honest, _real_ , and Tommy wants to hear more just like that right the hell now.

Slinging an arm around Adam's neck, Tommy keeps stroking slow and steady, giving himself a gold star for getting used to the weird angle so quickly. "What d'you wanna do?" he asks, tilting his chin up as Adam heads down. He'd complain about the lack of a good tonguefucking, but he likes people going at his neck. It's so not surprising Adam figured that one out already. "Tell me what you like to do. Like, all of it. Give it to me really sweet and dirty."

A huffing laugh breaks through one of Adam's kisses. "Should've known you'd be a talker. It really always is the quiet ones, isn't it?"

"Dude," Tommy says, pushing at Adam's jeans, trying to get them down lower, "I am one loudmouthed little fuck in bed, okay, you're gonna love it. Can we get naked?"

Even before Adam's halfway through saying, "God, _yes_ ," he's yanking off Tommy's borrowed hoodie, his tee, big covetous hands smoothing along Tommy's ink and then his chest, over the small, permanent bump of a belly that Tommy got over being stuck with years ago, all the way down to tug at his sweats. Tommy hikes his hips up, heartbeat going a mile a minute and brain at a standstill as Adam's fingers curve under the waistband at the small of his back, drag his pants down with knuckles sliding all along his ass and down his thighs. A shiver races down Tommy's spine, zips right back up again, crazy as a lightning bug.

"Ten motherfucking points," Tommy says, totally impressed with how sexy that whole thing was as he's busy yanking harder at Adam's jeans, wondering why the fuck the things are cemented on when they're actual regular fucking jeans, not the crotch-hugging painted-on kind. "When I said we, I meant you. Jesus Christ, get your fucking pants off already."

Instead, Adam grabs the hem of his tee and hauls it off. Faced with all this bare skin, splashed with a gorgeous riot of freckles, Tommy freezes. Half a second later instinct or habit or what the fuck ever kicks in and he gets his mouth on Adam's chest, licking and sucking at a nipple because hey, he's pretty used to those. He's not really thinking as he brings a hand up, just wanting more in his mouth, and squeezes flesh into a gentle mound to suck harder like Adam's suddenly got tits or something. A strong hand clutches at Tommy's hair, holding him right where he is, so he figures Adam doesn't really mind.

By the time Adam hauls him off, panting shallowly, there's a red mottle all the way around Adam's wet nipple, and seriously, Tommy wants to get right back to that shit, see how loudly he can make Adam moan.

"Just," Adam says, shoving at his jeans, kicking them off when they bunch at his knees, "hang on a second."

Tommy babbles, "Yeah, fuck, okay," and yanks at Adam's shorts. Adam takes over halfway down his thighs and Tommy drops back to the bed, stares up at Adam as he twists around to pull off his socks, Tommy's too, so they're both naked. Totally naked, together.

Stroking up the inside of Tommy's thigh, Adam says, "You're gorgeous, baby."

"You got a really, really big dick," Tommy blurts. Which makes sense, right? Adam's a big guy. The broad shoulders, legs for miles kind of big. Tommy is maybe kinda intimidated. Not in some stereotypical his-junk-is-bigger-than-mine jock way. In a startlingly real that's-gonna-go-up-his-ass way. He's not worried about it fitting or some dumb shit like that. More like what it's gonna be like to take it, to feel Adam moving inside him, and holy fucking fuck if the idea doesn't send a spike of pure hot want arrowing straight into his belly.

"I totally get it," Tommy says, pretty randomly if the crinkle of Adam's brow is anything to go by. "Tell me you brought some fucking rubbers. Like, you had some sort of really awesome intuition or you were hoping, _something_."

"Hoping that my straight best friend was going to ask me to fuck him?" Adam asks, aiming for that cool, are-you-serious thing he sometimes does and missing by every single mile they've driven so far.

Tommy nods quickly. "That's the one. Are you gonna fuck me? I get to do you sometimes though, right? 'Cause I like your ass a lot and it would be a real fucking crying shame if I didn't get up there at least like, once a month."

"Oh my god," Adam says, and, catching Tommy by the chin, shuts him up by shoving his tongue straight into his mouth. It works pretty well for all of ten seconds. As soon as the mattress shifts, Adam slowly settling down on top of him, all that warm skin pressed close, Adam's cock dragging against the inside of his thigh, he starts making noise again, muffled and eager. Adam feels incredible.

Hands skidding down Adam's back, Tommy grabs onto two big handfuls of his ass, solidly plants both feet and grinds his dick against Adam's stomach. Teeth scrape his bottom lip, either an accident or a reprimand, he doesn't actually care--Adam can bitch him out if he wants, he's not stopping now.

"What if I want to suck you?" Adam says, nuzzling a kiss beneath the hinge of Tommy's jaw.

"What if I want to suck _you_ ," Tommy counters. It takes him a second to work his way through what it would mean to suck Adam off, though--mostly that whole part where he'd be trying to cram Adam's fucking massive dick into his mouth, hopefully without choking to death, and if Adam is the type of guy who goes for the money shot or likes to watch somebody swallow. "Hey-"

"Do you want to?" Adam asks, propped up on one hand to watch him.

"Fuck yeah I do." That said, though, Tommy's still pretty busy fucking up into Adam. Maybe he's a freak, whatever, he loves rubbing off on someone. It's good but not drive him out of his mind good, so he can get some and watch whoever he's with, too. But usually it's all soft skin, nothing at all like the contrast he's getting now with the prickle of hair low on Adam's belly, or the sharper, deeper angles, the strong muscles flexing beneath his palms as his hands drag up Adam's back, fingers digging in to hold on harder.

Lifting up, Adam gets his cock snugged against Tommy's, gives a couple good, firm thrusts, and Tommy's knees fall wide like he's a fucking natural, ready to beg for it for real.

"You like that?" Adam asks, more an excuse to get warm breath tickling at Tommy's ear than really needing an answer.

Shocked straight down to his core, Tommy grits out, "I'm gonna come."

Adam makes a hungry noise and shoves an arm beneath Tommy, hauling him in tight. Tommy tries to slow down a little--he's not a fucking teenager again, the amazing thirty-second wonder--but his body's not listening. The only thing his body is doing is tossing him the fucking finger. He hooks a leg around Adam's, hoping maybe that'll force him to ease up, but Adam doesn't seem to have a problem with borderline premature ejaculation. If the way he's fucking down is anything to go by, he _wants_ to make Tommy lose it as fast as he can.

"You fucker," Tommy groans right before the thick heat wound tight in his belly snaps and he's coming all over them both.

"Gorgeous," Adam murmurs between sloppy kisses. "Absolutely beautiful, baby."

Groping through the mess, Tommy gets a hand on Adam's cock, starts jacking him smooth and hard and come-slick. See how _he_ likes blowing it before he's ready.

"God, fuck," Adam moans, not sounding one bit disappointed at all. "So fucking good, Tommy, just like that." He pushes up on the palms of both hands, chin dropped to his chest so he can look down, watch. It gives Tommy a pretty fucking spectacular view, too, Adam's cock pumping glistening wet and thick into his fist. "Can I come on you, is that okay?"

Tommy croaks, "Jesus, yeah, okay, come on, do it," so fucking messed up inside, crazy with wanting to watch Adam lose it, being the one to make it happen. He splays a hand firmly in the centre of Adam's chest, making sure he stays up there so Tommy can see it when he blows.

"No, I want," Adam says, batting weakly at Tommy's hand, pressing down so hard trying to get close again Tommy has to lock his elbow to keep him off.

"Kiss me after," Tommy says, "if you're gonna come on me, I'm gonna fucking watch you do it," and that's it, the magic button, a sharp twist of his wrist as he rubs over the head of Adam's big dick enough to get Adam groaning curses at him and coming hard. He's not sure what's better, the sweet, shocked pleasure on Adam's face or the bizarrely really fucking hot spill of come over his hand, dripping down over his fingers onto his stomach, or the way Adam sounds as he's losing it, wrecked and kinda desperate like he can't believe Tommy's the one doing this to him.

To be fair, Tommy can't fucking believe it, either. But oh fuck is he willing to go with it.

"Now," Adam gasps, shaking as he yanks Tommy's hand away from his chest, "now, fuck, now." Tommy's so caught up in _Adam fucking coming on him_ that he doesn't have a clue what the fuck's going on until Adam's crushing him to the mattress trying to suck his tongue out of his head.

Tommy's pretty fucking willing to go with that, too. Even ten minutes later when his mouth feels sore and the mess on their stomachs is gone from slick and hot to sticky and cool, and the angle of his right hand trapped between them is making his wrist ache. He wriggles his fingers to keep the blood flowing.

"Sorry," Adam says, lifting up a fraction to let him drag his arm free.

"You should be," Tommy says. "Now it's gonna be like a whole fucking half hour before you get to fuck me. Condoms?"

Helplessly, Adam starts to laugh.

*

Near two or three in the morning, the storm begins to move inland. Tommy's sprawled on his stomach on the rug in front of the fireplace, head pillowed on his arms and Adam halfway on top of him, fingers stroking happy, endless circles on a patch of bare skin below the hem of his tee. "This is really, really good," Tommy says lazily.

"It really is," Adam agrees. "Sorry I didn't pack for just in case."

"S'okay." Adam's kind of heavy, and even piled up with blankets, the floor's a little too hard. But the fire's warm, crackling merrily, and the second Adam casually mentioned wanting to cuddle in front of it, Tommy was already on his way down. Knowing what he does now, he feels like a total shit for being so stupid for so long. He's got a lot of making up to do.

Settling down on his elbows, watching Tommy's face, Adam says, "You're doing it again."

"Fuck." Tommy ducks his head. "Sorry. I just--Jesus. I was really dumb."

"Baby," Adam says, frowning, "this self-flagellation thing is not good for you."

"I'm not-- What the fuck did you just say? How do you have enough energy left to trot out words like self-flagellation, fuck." Rolling over onto his back, Tommy scoots in closer so Adam's above him. "I'm allowed to beat myself up over it a little. It's like, motivation to not waste any more time."

"Sort of like how you could be kissing me now instead of talking?" Adam asks, firelight twinkling in his eyes.

"Sort of exactly fucking like that," Tommy says, and gets right to it.

*

 _  
**Epilogue**   
_

Adam casts a doubtful look around. "Are you sure this is the place?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Tommy says, dumping their shit on one of the double beds. "Straight down thataway and 'round the big stump, you heard the lady."

"Huh." Poking his head into the bathroom, Adam says, "It looks different than I remember."

Even without the pouring rain, it looks totally the same to Tommy. But he takes a second to size up the cabin, matching the scuffed and battered table in the cramped kitchenette up to the one in his memory, the soot-stained fireplace, the bookshelf with the mess of old atlases and cloth-bound journals. Heading over to pluck one off the shelf, he flips through page after page, bringing it over to Adam once he finds what he's looking for. "It's the right one. Number 5. See?"

Staring down at the book, a bright, wide smile chasing away the confusion in his eyes, Adam says, "When did you--"

"That morning," Tommy butts in, flipping the book shut and giving it a careless toss onto the bed beside their bags. "While you were outside yelling at me to hurry my pretty ass along."

"Baby," Adam says, pulling him in close, practically fucking incandescent with happiness. "I love you."

"Yeah," Tommy says, slinging his arms around Adam's neck with a shrug. "I really fucking love you too. Go figure, huh?"

*

 _July 23, 2011  
Here is where our story got amazing._

*  
End  
[Daughters of the Soho Riots](http://www.mediafire.com/?2ir72irga1jmqti)


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